Did you know Phil Spector has a brass plaque of his very own on the “Walk of Fame” along the Avenue of the Arts (a/k/a Broad Street) in Philadelphia?
He does. It’s on the northeast corner of Broad and Locust Streets, putting Spector right next to Nina Simone.
I wonder what, if anything, the Philadelphia Music Alliance, which places the plaques, will do if Spector is eventually found guilty of the murder of Lana Clarkson. Does the PMA have a policy on this? Has the issue come up before?
While I’m on the subject (of plaques, not murder), perhaps someone from the PMA can explain why the plaques for Daryl Hall and John Oates were placed directly in front of the Academy of Music, the longtime home of the Philadelphia Orchestra, while Riccardo Muti is sort of pushed aside and to the corner there?
Die Already, Would You?
Why on earth would anyone in his right mind want to live to be 140 years old?
Or: Jim’s Eye for the Queer Guy
Ted: Food & Wine Connoisseur
Which Member from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy is your type?
brought to you by Quizilla
I’m not sure what this means since I’ve never seen the show.
But it’s good, right? Or at least okay?
Limes: The New Cholesterol?
Two brief conversations overheard last night in a crowded bar in Center City Philadelphia:
Bartender: What’ll you have?
Bar Patron #1: A Bacardi and Coke.
Bartender: Would you like a lime with that?
Bar Patron #1: No, no, the lime hurts my stomach.
No more than twenty minutes later:
Bartender: Can I help you?
Bar Patron #2: I’ll have a rum and Coke.
Bartender: Would you like a lime with that?
Bar Patron #2: Uh . . . uh, no. No . . . I’d better not.
Am I missing something here?
I’m suddenly hearing bagpipes. Many bagpipes. Many pipes of bags. Or bags of pipes. Playing, I think, in sync with each other.
Oh, must be tomorrow’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Philadelphia.
No, I don’t get the connection either, but it’s my best bet.
Overheard, in the sense that the first comment was directed at me and indirectly at my dog, Mildred, the world’s greatest English bulldog, last night:
Twentysomething Guy: “Dude, that is, like, totally, like, the coolest dog I have ever seen, like, in my life. Seriously, dude. Like, ever.
Me: Hey, thanks.
Sure beats the more commonly expressed sentiment from the proverbial -- and actual -- person on the street, which goes sort of like this: “Man, your dog is really fat.”
My response to this particular observation -- which we get a lot -- varies greatly. Sometimes I’m polite. Sometimes I’m not.
One time, a time when I wasn’t polite, I thought I was going to get my head bashed in. But let me say, again, and this time just for the record, the guy’s girlfriend was no Kate Moss. And while I hate to stoop that low, he had it coming, and I guess she, in her silence, kind of did too.
[Post-publication addendum ( November 26): As I understand it, Mildred was bred at a time, or just after a time, when the larger English bulldogs were winning most of the prizes at the major dog shows. The result: breeders sought to produce larger bulldogs to satisfy the demand of the show crowd. (Mildred, by the way, is ineligible for American Kennel Club shows because she is not “intact.” See spaying, infra.) Now, Mildred is, I admit, a little overweight, but she’s also just plain big. She is taller and longer than any female bulldog I’ve ever seen, and taller and longer than most male bulldogs I’ve encountered as well. She weighs more, and may even be larger than, her most famous peer, Uga VI, the University of Georgia mascot, though I’m certain her head is significantly smaller than his, which is normally the case with the girls. More recently, however, I was told that Mildred’s large stature and persistently ample weight may have resulted from my having had her spayed too early, though I was only following the veterinarian’s orders. I suppose that’s a subject for some future research, or maybe just a quick Google search, but it’s late (actually, it’s early: nearly 3:00 a.m.), and I just don’t feel like doing that right now. And so the mystery continues.]
In case you didn’t notice, and for that you cannot be blamed, the Greater Philadelphia Chamber of Commerce last month adopted a new slogan, catch phrase, or tag line, what have you, to promote business and development in “Greater Philadelphia,” which, keeping in line with the city -- and region’s -- perpetual state of misguidance, apparently is a place and not an aspiration.
It goes like this, if you can believe it: “Select Greater Philadelphia: The Place to Prosper.”
According to the Philadelphia Business Journal, that smart, sprite, snappy, rolls-right-off-your-tongue slogan will be the center of “a $16[-]million, four-year branding effort designed to bring businesses to the region.”
I’m speechless. This is garbage. Trash. Junk. Nonsense.
And I’m dubious. Forgive me for predicting that “Select Greater Philadelphia: The Place to Prosper” isn’t prose-worthy or even slogan-worthy enough, to say nothing of sufficiently “sponge-worthy,” to knock anyone over, let alone draw anyone’s attention, nor, worse, bring any business to “Greater Philadelphia,” neither the city nor the region, the place, that is, nor, heaven forbid, the aspiration.
But nobody asked me.
Now, though, they, or at least their kindred sprits (or colleagues) in the field, are sort of asking. Or at least their proxy, the governor, is.
As recently announced, Pennsylvania, the commonwealth thereof, not the state, because there’s no such thing, under the direction and guidance of Gov. Edward Rendell (D), is hunting about for a new slogan, a message to welcome visitors through the 36 billboards that greet travelers entering the Keystone Commonwealth State.
In and of itself that last statement is mystifying: Though occupying an area of 46 thousand square miles and bordering such abundantly populated states as New York, Ohio, New Jersey, and Maryland, Pennsylvania has placed just 36 just billboards welcoming visitors here?
[I think R.J. Reynolds has more billboards than that just in West Philly. Boards that read, at least subliminally, something like, “Salem: Feel the Excitement, You Stupid Still-Smoking Negro.” Why are there no similar billboards in Philadelphia’s “gayborhood”? Saying something like, “Benson & Hedges: Live (And Then Die) the Classy Image, You Gullible Faggot”?]
And people elsewhere call Pennsylvanians insular and parochial? How dare they?
Well, we do need a new slogan, if only because nobody can recall what the current one is. As Philadelphia Daily News columnist John Baer reported this week (“Name-That-Slogan Contest Has a Good Ring, Ed”), there is justifiable confusion, and Pennsylvania’s history in this area is a little, well, checkered:
Gov. Milton Shapp’s “Pennsylvania, Naturally” turned out to be Vermont’s slogan. Gov. Dick Thornburgh’s “You’ve Got a Friend in Pennsylvania” is grammatically incorrect and scared people away (they thought it was a reference to then-Rep. Stephen Friend. [Ed.: Inside, er, joke. Google it.] Gov. Bob Casey’s “America Starts Here” never started anything. And Gov. Tom Ridge’s “Memories Last a Lifetime” already belonged to Wildwood [N.J.], which for too many means bad memories. [Ed.: Amen to that, brother.]
But as Baer notes, Pennsylvania’s not the only state (or commonwealth) with, at the very least, an image problem. He writes:
Other, funnier states have joke slogans.
Alabama: Yes, we have electricity. Arkansas: Literacy ain’t everything. Mississippi: Come, feel better about your state. And the ever-popular Nevada: Whores & poker!
Baer’s suggestions in light of that:
One wants to offer, Pennsylvania: It’s Alabama-plus, or Potholes Last a Lifetime, or Cooking with Coal, or Bring Your Own Doctor, or, as suggested on the Web site Political State Report, “Pennsylvania: ‘Deliverance’ with Scrapple.”
Anyway, as Baer and others have suggested, if you have an idea of your own -- and if I’m going to rant about this, I’d better come up with one myself -- head to VisitPA to complete your entry form. (Ugh, yet another misuse of a two-digit postal abbreviation in a setting in which it clearly doesn’t belong.)
You could win a week’s vacation in Pennsylvania valued at $5,000! (No wisecracks, please? There really is a lot to see and do here.)
There’s actually a second contest for “grade school kids.” I’m not exactly sure what that phrase means in this context, since a 4th-grader’s slogan is likely, as demonstrated above with respect to greater Philadelphia and prospering and whatever, to be at least as good as that created by months of effort from a room full of “marketing experts.” According to Baer, “The winning grade school class entry goes on specialty license plates with proceeds of plate sales paying for school computers.” What? No vacation? No percentage of sales?
You have until December 17. Hop on it! Or, as long-time Philadelphians would say, “Ho-ohp awnnit!”
Face Facts
Whoa, flashback! A neighbor of Andrew Northrup of the Poor Man owns a Jeep Wrangler and the neighbor is angry because his Wrangler recently was -- get this -- “vandalized”! (Click through the link, if only to see the flyer.)
Now, as best I can recall, Northrup lives in Washington, D.C.,* a city I called home for 11 years, during five of which I also owned a Jeep Wrangler.
And now he, the neighbor, not Northrup, is distributing flyers. Threatening flyers.
“Vandalized” and you’re passing around flyers?
Vandalized?
Please, that was the least of my problems.
Until I obtained, first, almost-uncuttable cables, and second, a hood lock, and third, an off-street, gated, and locked parking space monitored 24/7 by cameras and security guards, the battery from my Wrangler was stolen four times. Four times, that is, preceding all of the aforementioned precautions, before this idiot (that would be me) started lugging the battery back into his apartment each and every time he parked the Jeep on the street.
What else?
Well, the driver’s side of the Jeep was “keyed” no more than two weeks after I bought the damned thing.
The stereo was stolen, even though the face plate was securely stowed in my living room.
The ignition system was destroyed twice, presumably as a result of attempts to steal the vehicle.
The “windows” (which are made of plastic) were slashed three times, and the “roof” (which is made of nylon) was cut open twice.
The gas cap was stolen twice and gasoline pulled from the tank at least once before I got a lock for that.
The license plates were pried off twice, both the temporary tags and the first set of “permanent” tags.
And a used condom was found in the back seat one morning after I just said the hell with it and stopped locking the Jeep at night.
Look, the Wrangler is a really great vehicle. Tons of fun. I loved it. But if you live in a large city and you park your Wrangler on the street, or anywhere near the street, any street, well, you’re just asking for it. Trust me, I know.
And owning a gun, as Northrup’s neighbor brags he does, won’t help you one bit, no matter what the perpetually clueless say.
*[Post-publication addendum (November 24): I made a mistake. Northrup writes to tell me he is not based in Washington, D.C. He writes from Austin, Texas. That might explain the whole gun thing. Or not.]
A Note on Social Etiquette Here and Elsewhere
Today I happened to come across a brief party-and-dinner etiquette primer by Martin Booe, published in the Los Angeles Times in several parts on a date or dates that cannot readily be determined.
The collection is useful, even if it includes few surprises or new nuggets of knowledge. (At least for me.) However, one part of the series, that entitled “How to Start a Conversation,” caught my eye. In this piece Booe writes:
I used to find making small talk much easier than I do now. I blame this on knowing too many Europeans, who have convinced me that the standard American icebreaker -- “So, what do you do?” -- is invasive, rude[,] and unimaginative, the equivalent of asking, “So, what can you do for me?”
I’ve never lived in Los Angeles -- in fact, I’ve only visited once -- but I hardly find it surprising that asking, “So, what do you do?”, is considered a perfectly acceptable manner by which to start a conversation with a stranger in that city and its sprawling environs.
And having lived previously in Washington, D.C., and New York, I can assert, with no hesitation whatsoever, that in both of these cities that particular question is not only considered suitable, it is, if anything, de rigueur. Moreover, one had better have prepared an impressive answer unless one wishes to spend the evening in morbid, ignored silence. (Not that I ever had a problem with that.)
But now I live in Philadelphia, and while my social life leaves much to be desired and is a far cry from that which I enjoyed earlier in life, I’ve picked up a few regional variations on standard American etiquette (as practiced, not instructed) that apply here.
As it happens, one of the local idiosyncrasies is that one must never, under any conceivable circumstance or in any possible social situation, ask a Philadelphian what he or she does for a living. (Just try asking Atrios how he earns his keep.)
And it matters not one bit how tactfully this question is phrased. I would almost go so far as to say that should one meet a prominent Philadelphian at a social gathering one might be best advised to feign complete and utter unfamiliarity with the gentleman or lady to whom one has just been introduced.
I’m not sure why this is exactly. (Nor do I understand why most long-time Philadelphians call the sidewalk “the pavement,” which a new friend did just last night.) But inquiring as to a stranger, social companion, or new acquaintance’s line of work simply isn’t done here. It is quite widely considered impolite, rude, and condescending. And this is true not only of one’s first meeting, but of the second, third, fourth, and so on. Although the information may be volunteered during the initial conversation, if it is not one must wait, patiently, to be provided this knowledge solely at the other party’s leisure and convenience.
I suppose this quirk adds to the general air of mystery and modesty that helps explain why so few Americans outside Philadelphia understand the true character and many virtues of this great city.
Speaking for myself, I kind of like this random oddity, but I’ve really got to work on some new opening lines.
(Maybe the answer is to be found somewhere in Puritan Boston & Quaker Philadelphia, the landmark study by University of Pennsylvania sociology professor E. Digby Baltzell, a book that just happens to be on the Rittenhouse wish list at Amazon.com.)
The Philadelphia Mayoral Race
There’s better news than that post just below is coming out of Philadelphia tonight: Incumbent Mayor John F. Street (D) today defeated businessman and former-school-board-member-who-didn’t-care-much-for-attending-meetings-and-little-stuff-like-that Sam Katz (R).
I’m pleased. I’m sure it was the Rittenhouse endorsement that put Street over the top. But I will say that Katz is no ordinary Republican. To be honest, a Katz victory would not have bothered me in the least. I think he would have made a fine and capable mayor. And, as noted here previously, he took pains to disassociate himself from President George W. Bush, efforts greatly appreciated and respected by Rittenhouse.
Repeatedly Katz told voters he was “not a national Republican,” that he would “go nowhere” in the party beyond Philadelphia, and that the mayor’s job is the one position about which he has dreamed his entire life. (A job he now has sought twice, but after the cushy jobs that made him the wealthy man he is today, of course.)
I found this claim dubious on its face. I doubt Katz had no political ambitions beyond City Hall. And does it really matter that Katz is “out of step” with the Republicon Party writ large? I don’t think so. After all, Pennsylvanians have been living with, and, for reasons beyond rational explanation, voting for, Sen. Arlen Specter (R) for decades.
I swear there was a nasty pop/dance song circulating a while back that included among its gracious and sophisticated lyrics the line, “Take your jeans off . . . Take your jeans off.” (I can’t find it now, so just trust me on this one, okay?)
I’m here, right now, to say, again, and in a similar vein: “Take your flip-flops off!”
It’s November for crying out loud! I don’t care how warm it is outside. Take them off! Store them. Box them. Stow them away. Or, better yet, just throw them away! They’re filthy anyway, even if you refuse to see that.
[Post-publication addendum (November 3): Reader Andy, who I guess is really on top of this kind of thing, writes in to remind me the song was “Let Me Be Your Underwear” by Club 69 (1992). I’ve been waiting for that ditty to show up in a Gap ad. You know, for one of the chain’s periodic attempts to get everyone to wear corduroys or something.]